


You’re My Obsession

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: Because BOYS On Film Look Better [15]
Category: Duran Duran, The Power Station (Band)
Genre: Adrenaline, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Audience Madness, Backstage antics, Bows, Curtain Call, Debauchery, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Love Bites, M/M, Men Cuddling, Play That Fucking Bass, Power Station, Screaming, Smut, Stage Lights, Sweat, Touring, Wall Sex, Wandering eyes, fantasies, handjobs, homoerotic, men kissing, post show, stage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:07:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26123212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: It’s not only a stage high John can blame for his want, carnal need. It’s Andy. Andy in his dressing room, Andy’s hands on his hips.It’s Andy shoving him up against his own dressing room mirror; fucking him without restraint.
Relationships: Andy Taylor/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Series: Because BOYS On Film Look Better [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075265
Comments: 9
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I inspired myself with this, going by those backstage photographs of John and Andy chilling by John’s dressing room mirror.
> 
> This was written so quickly, literally pouring out of me faster than what I could handle, my wrists ache. ENJOY THE PORN!

_The Power Station Tour,_ _Live In Houston_

_July 19th, 1985_

_Finale Medley Of “Obsession.”_

**_Give the man a hand, give the man a hand._ **

Strumming away, blinded by the sweat, John plucked wild at his strings; lapping up the roar of the Houston crowd.

**_Give the man a hand!_ **

They were working through the credits, the crowd were in hysterics as each session musician took their well earned bow. His fingertips were raw, screaming with white heat, yet he was cackling like a loon; still strumming like his life depended on it.

Though he was wasted, pulse running hot on the high of the show; John had barely taken his heated gaze off of the guitarist all night.

**_I’m looking for a man with a different heartbeat,_ **

****

In the smokey haze, the spotlight was on Andy, shredding wild, all night. He was insane, bringing the joint down in his firey haze. Thrusting lightly against his stark black guitar, pretty mouth dropped and nimble fingers a painful blur; caressing the neck with such a love and lust. John was straining painfully.

**_I’ve heard he’s nice, he can be real sweet._ **

****

He was thoroughly soaking up their crowd. Not Duran’s crowd, _their Taylor_ crowd. John watched, panting harshly, sweating manically, strutting to the front of the stage to Michael; as Andy absorbed his spotlight, never dulled by it.

**_If your body’s hot and you want to rock,_ **

Andy was burning up out there. They still had three more songs, John didn’t think he’d make it. His heart was beating erratically, thrusting deep in his chest, his stomach was in knots.

**_Take a look at what John’s got!_ **

The shrieks were maddening; the audience were manic and he was going down in their flames. John took his bow, hunting his bass through his solo, milking it, selling the moment in a fury.

Andy was right there, wide eyes signalling onto his form.

**_Give the man a hand, give the man a hand._ **

Andy was right there, John was burning under that heavy gaze.

**_Give the man a hand! John Taylor everybody, John Taylor._ **

****

He knew what was coming next, strutting back to the far right of the stage. Paving way, hips cocking out, humping his bass with force; beady eyes on a certain man: up front and centre. Shredding, like his life depended on it.

**_Sittin’ on a dock of a bay, strumming my guitar away._ **

The beat dropped, their singer slowing it down. Full of soul, full of rhythm and rhyme.

**_I’m looking for Andy._ **

Asking for him. John was too, beckoning him over, by the suggestive turn of his hips; his parted lips, struggling for breath. Wanting it stolen, ripped from him by _Andy_.

**_I’m looking for Andy! Where’s Andy?!_ **

The house was finally bought down, on a level John had never known. The guitarist had the crowd wrapped around his fingers, luring them in, rocking out and just daring them to join in.

**_Andy! Give the man a hand, give the man a hand._ **

****

Andy was soaking it up, loving life and shining. John was in pieces, stitches, fumbling over his own notes as Andy took that sacred bow, smiling and waving; shoving his guitar up high above his head. About to toss it to the audience, driving him mad by simply moving.

**_Give the man a hand!_ **

By simply _existing_.

**_Andy Taylor everyone! The power of the Power Station._ **


	2. Chapter 2

The rush off of stage was maddening, John’s skin was burning him up right under the satin he wore; tossing off his long, silken black waterfall jacket. Unbuttoning the few buttons left to unbutton, swiping his chest of the sweat soaking it. His shirt was stuck to him.

Andy was right there, dripping in sweat. Dripping in desire, carnal need. Surely John’s eyes were fooling him, watching him strip himself of his black boxy coat and hunt for a towel.

John tossed one to him, finding another for himself; mopping up blood, sweat, tears and makeup. He was still panting, heart racing far too fast. Maybe it was the drugs, the drink, maybe it was that bastard Andy.

Now face to face with his own wobbly reflection, blinded by his own sweat, he was surely kidding himself. Andy was right behind him, a hand on John’s waist.

Groaning, John fell forward; slippery hands clutching at the dressing table; knocking his ash tray to the floor. Stumping out the lit cigarette, John hissed as the other hand clutched his side, clutched _hard_ : keeping the man in place.

Looking up, panting and dishevelled, John could only hold on tighter. Those hands were on him, running up his shirt, peeling the fabric away before ripping it off of his body. John whined, nipples perking up under those talented fingers, hips buckling backwards into leather retrained own.

Within moments they were both a tangle of limbs, yanking and gnawing at the hot and pasty skin that was dripping wet in front of them. Those lips were on John’s neck, hands in his trousers, snaking his belt free, shoving them to the floor.

John was shoved forward, cheek smushed up against the mirror. Blinded by the lights, blinking rapidly behind his closed eyelids; he let out a throaty whine as his member was grasped, leaking onto a ready palm.

Those strokes were quick, powerful, John was bucking into that hand; panting harshly up against the steaming glass.  
  


John cried out, fingers were slipping inside. He was groaning, shoving himself back onto them, unraveling himself deeper. Wanting it rough, wanting it to hurt. Needing to take them all in, to be stretched, taunted and demeaned.

He was yanked back, sweaty curls dropping into his face. Whirled around, lips colliding, erections brushing; hips jerking and grunts falling everywhere. They were kissing, John was stripping him, fingers clutching at anything and everything. Sucking, groping, too hot to handle.

Another yank, John was thrown back around. Hands up, braced on the mirror, his hips were bruised from their hold. They hadn’t even gotten started yet. John was panting, full of erotic pleads and pathetic moans; grasping at the glass which was boiling hot under his fingertips.

A nod, a chance to brace himself. Another breath and he was filled, slamming up against the mirror, being taken right up to the hilt. John was moaning, hissing and panting with each thrust, working with those manic hips as his own stuttered out their rough rhythm.

Their speed increased, there was a hand at the back of his head. Smushing John further into the mirror, cheek crushed against it, barely able to dull his whines as he was further drilled into the dressing table. Member brushing it painfully, slamming into the drawers with each thrust, John could only whine as the pressure was building, as the friction was taunting. How he was aching, so close, so very freaking close that he couldn’t hold on.

His right leg was cocked up, yanked higher with a growl. The angle was changed and John was crying out, hips bucking backwards, rutting up against the slick flesh behind. A hand was on him, jerking him roughly. Lips were attached to his neck, sucking and biting. Hips were bruised, lips were swollen.

John was coming and screaming, yet not a single sound dropped from his blood stained lips.

The convulsions rocked his core, sending him further forward to lean on the table, limbs giving way. The convulsions rocked his core, clamping down on the cock inside him; milking it for all it’s worth.

Another harsh cry, pants barely stabilising, John was being filled over and over; whiting out again as another huge wave of pleasure crashed over him. Knowing he had done that, made them both feel that way.

What a high to crash from.

They withdrew, John whimpered at the momentary bolt of pain. He immediately whirled himself around, shaky hands leaning heavily on his dressing table for support. He was faced with Andy, panting harshly and grinning like the right twat he was. His twat, his love and partner in crime having come back to Earth. Come back to John.

All the fight, adrenaline, was rushing from them. John wanted to cuddle so Andy held him, soothing him, kissing him softly. John wanted to blanket his nude body with Andy’s; so Andy let him, dropping them both into the sofa with a grunt.

With a breathless laugh, John again was beneath him; running his fingertips up the burning skin of Andy’s bare back, before tracing them around his sides. Reeling him in closer, pulling him down by the wet hair, for a closed mouth kiss, a chance to breathe his air.

**Author's Note:**

> All the dialogue in bold and italics are taken from The Power Station’s Finale melody of _Obsession _from their Houston gig, July 19th 1985. I have bootleg audio.__  
>  _  
>  _Performed by one of their session singers, rapping his heart out, is damn groovy and totally worth the listen._  
>  ___  
>  _One of the best audience interactions I’ve ever heard at a concert, is this one!_  
>  Find me on tumblr @duranarchy-in-the-uk  
> ❤️


End file.
